


The Road That Leads You Home

by schlicky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Coulson Lives, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:32:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schlicky/pseuds/schlicky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t find out until after the shawarma. Phil is gone, and Clint feels like he can’t breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks, always, to halfmoonsevenstars for all the handholding and editing. All remaining mistakes are my own.

He doesn’t find out until after the shawarma.

Natasha pulls him aside and tells him what happened, stares at him.

He’s not sure what she’s looking for – cracks in the surface, maybe. He stares back at her for a long time while everything around him seems to fall apart. Clint opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ , but nothing ever comes out.

The lump in his throat makes talking impossible.

Phil is gone.

Phil is gone, and Clint feels like he can’t breathe.

Natasha’s hand is firm on the back of his neck and she looks worried. He realizes she’s been talking to him and he hasn’t heard a single word.

His sinks down to the floor and wonders how the fuck he’s supposed to keep going when Phil’s not here to push him. 

\--

There’s a large part of him that hadn’t wanted to come at all. Maybe if he didn’t attend, it wouldn’t be real. He’s glad for the hand Natasha has hooked around his elbow because it gives him something other than the pain in his chest to focus on.

It’s clear by some of the looks he’s getting from the less senior agents that they think he shouldn’t be here.

They think it’s his fault.

He can’t really blame them. They’re right, after all.

Natasha whispers something to him that he doesn’t hear.

There isn’t a casket. The table at the front is covered with flowers and one large frame with a picture of Phil. He’s not smiling in it, and Clint can’t help but think that Phil would hate it a lot. He would hate to be remembered that way.

Junior agents liked to joke that Phil was a robot, but in actuality, he laughed all the time. At least around Clint and Natasha, he did.

The tight feeling in his chest starts to get worse after they sit down and it gets harder to breathe. He curls his fingers around Natasha’s when her hand finds his between them.

He thinks seriously about getting up and walking out after a few minutes, but they’re at the front of the room. He wouldn’t be able to slip out without everyone seeing him leave. Instead, he takes a deep breath until he can’t possibly expand his lungs any more and lets it out in a slow exhale. He stops listening to what Fury is saying and tries to find the place in his head where everything else falls away.

Natasha squeezes his hand some time later. “Clint. Come on, it’s over,” she says softly, and when he opens his eyes, everyone is standing to leave, some stopping at the front to pay last respects.

Clint sucks in a shaky breath and somehow manages to get his feet beneath him.

There’s a line of expensive black cars waiting on the curb. Natasha pushes him into the backseat of one and then slides in after him.

“Where are we going?” Clint asks as the car pulls away. He struggles to get out of his suit jacket, feeling claustrophobic.

“Stark rented out a restaurant,” Natasha tells him and reaches over to swat his hands away from his tie as he tries to get it undone. “You’re going to ruin it.”

“I don’t care,” he mutters.

She gets the tie off and shoves it in one of the pockets of his discarded jacket. She reaches over and takes one hand in both of hers, holding tightly.

Clint’s eyes are burning as he watches the city pass by them. His breath gets lodged somewhere in his throat when the car comes to a stop outside of a nice Italian restaurant.

It was Phil’s favorite.

“I can’t.”

Natasha squeezes harder. “You can,” she tells him, her voice soft but firm. “Come on. Just for a little while, and then we’ll go home.”

 _Phil_ was home, he thinks, and based on the expression on Natasha’s face, she knows what he’s thinking.

Within thirty seconds of walking in the door, Natasha puts an excessively large glass of whisky in his hand. Clint slides around the bar and sits in a booth in the far corner, his back to the wall so that no one will be able to sneak up on him.

Two glasses of whisky in, Clint watches Steve approach. Steve slides into the booth seat across from him, which Clint tries valiantly not to think of as Phil’s.

“Hi.”

“Cap.”

Steve watches him empty his glass and eyes the server as she places another one on the wooden surface in front of Clint. “Have you eaten yet?” he asks and when Clint shakes his head, he suggests, “Maybe you should order something.”

“I’m good.” He doesn’t think he would be able to get food down when swallowing the liquid is already a bit of a struggle.

“Okay.” Steve is still watching him, assessing. “I know the two of you were close.”

“Do you?”

Steve shrugs. “You don’t work together as long as you two did and not get close,” he says. “I didn’t know him well, but I think it says a lot about him that so many people showed up today.”

Clint forces down another swallow of amber liquid. “Yeah.”

“I’m not going to push, but if you ever want to talk to someone who’s not a shrink, I’ll listen. I know a thing or two about losing friends,” Steve tells him, and Clint feels an awful stab of guilt. Steve isn’t very far removed from losing everyone he ever knew.

“Okay,” Clint answers. “Thanks, Cap.”

“It’s nice,” Steve says haltingly after a minute, making a gesture around the restaurant. “What they’ve done for him.” He offers Clint a small, sad smile and slides out of the booth to disappear back into the crowd.

Clint stares down at his glass of whisky and wishes it could make him forget why they’re here, that it’s his fault.

\--

The mandated therapy sessions certainly aren’t a surprise. If the mind control hadn’t landed him here, losing Phil definitely would have. With a combination of the two, Clint is pretty sure he’s never going to see the outside of this room again.

His therapist is nice enough. She’s familiar with him, and he with her, because she’s been his assigned therapist after ops for the last year. She asks a lot of leading questions, trying to draw him out, trying to get him to talk about things.

Clint doesn’t answer most of them. He shuts down quickly when she brings up Phil.

Dr. Adams always gives him this look afterward, but she hasn’t started really pushing against those walls. She prescribes him anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication to “help manage everything.”

Clint wisely doesn’t make the lobotomy joke that automatically springs to mind, because he knows what the end result of that is likely to be and he’s not interested.

When Tony Stark invites him to live in the Tower, he’s mostly relieved. Staying in his room at HQ is making his skin crawl, and he can’t bear the thought of staying in his and Phil’s apartment in Queens without Phil there.

Clint spends a lot of time alone unless Natasha breaks into his bedroom. He’s not the least bit surprised when she spoons up behind him and slides her arm over him. He covers her hand with his, twining their fingers together.

“You should have come downstairs,” Natasha tells him. “We watched _Indiana Jones._ ”

He lets out a sigh. “I didn’t feel like it.”

“Are you ever going to feel like it?” she wants to know.

“I don’t know, Tasha.”

They lie there in silence for a while until she says softly, “I feel like I’m losing you, too.”

Clint releases her hand to turn over in bed to face her. When they settle down again, her head is pillowed on his bicep, close enough that their noses are almost touching. He curves his arm over her waist and holds her tightly. “You’re not losing me.”

“But you’re not here,” Natasha counters. “Where are you?”

He tangles his fingers in her red curls. “What do you want me to say?” Clint asks. “I’m sad. Most of the time, it’s all I can do just to get up in the morning.”

“It’s never going to go away,” Natasha says.

Clint almost smiles. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Of course not.” Her fingers are running a light trail up and down his spine. “But eventually you get used to it. You learn how to live with it.”

“I’m tired.”

“Grief does that.” Natasha slides her hand up to the back of his neck, her nails scratching along his hairline. “On the whole, sitting around in the dark by yourself is not going to make you feel better.”

“Are you sure?” Clint asks.

“Has it so far?” Natasha asks, the corner of her mouth twitching the tiniest bit.

“No,” he admits.

Natasha closes the small distance between them and kisses him lightly on the forehead. “Fake it until you make it, Barton.”

Clint sighs. “That’s horrible advice,” he tells her. “Stay with me?”

“Of course.”

\--

Clint punches his code into the keypad outside the office door and waits for it to register his identity. When the locks click, he pushes the door open and takes a breath before stepping inside the office.

It’s dark and still and Clint feels its emptiness like a punch to the gut. Fury assured him it hasn’t been touched – won’t be touched until Clint has gone through it to pack up Phil’s personal belongings.

It’s not the office itself that really gets to him, but the half-empty cup of Starbucks coffee still sitting on the desk.

He clears a space on the desk for the box he brought with him and empties it of the packing supplies, setting those aside on the chair for when he needs them. The deep breath he takes to steady him-self doesn’t help much. It’s slow going because the emotions threaten to overwhelm him with every little thing of Phil’s that his fingers brush. 

He finds the box when he’s going through the drawers. It’s tucked behind pens and paperclips and notepads and a heavy-duty stapler.

It’s a small black box and when he opens it, there’s a thin platinum band sitting on white satin. There are three dates engraved on the inside of the ring and he recognizes their significance immediately.

The earliest one is the day all those years ago when he and Phil met for the first time, when Phil had offered him a lifeline instead of a jail cell or a bullet to the head. Clint had grasped it tightly with both hands and promised himself he would die before disappointing this man, before letting him have even the slightest regret about the decision to bring him in from the cold.

The second is the date that Phil had officially been assigned as Clint’s handler. It was after he’d burned through all of the other available handlers and they’d quickly washed their hands of him, saying he was insubordinate, impossible to work with, and, on that last memorable occasion, better off on a cold table in a morgue.

He’s not sure what happened to that handler. He hasn’t asked, because Phil always looked a little too pleased when his name was brought up in conversation.

The third is their anniversary date, a week from today. Five years.

Clint’s chest feels tight and his lungs burn. He tries to focus on getting air in and out, the way his therapist has told him to when the anxiety starts to set in.

It reminds him that he hasn’t been to medical yet this morning. He knows from experience that they’ll come looking for him if he doesn’t turn up by lunchtime to take his medication.

After a few minutes, Clint touches the cool metal. He lifts it off its cushion and slides it onto his left hand. It fits perfectly, which doesn’t surprise him.

The one box he brought with him is more than enough for the personal items in Phil’s office. There aren’t too many, because Phil hadn’t wanted to invite questions with pictures and knickknacks.

The pictures that are in the office are mass-produced pieces of art, impersonal.

He finds the box for the set of four glass coasters in the bottom drawer of Phil’s desk. Clint collects them carefully, sliding a sheet of the flat foam between each of them so that they don’t get scratched.

He was with Phil when he bought them at an art fair: circular coasters hand-painted to look like Captain America’s shield. He remembers teasing Phil, and Phil just smiling at him, tucking his hand back into Clint’s with his purchase secure under his other arm.

It feels like a lot longer than only three years ago.

As he’s taping up the box, he hears the locks click and the door open.

There are only a handful of people who have access to this office. He’s already inside it, and one of them is dead. That shortens the list considerably.

“I wish you would have told me you were doing this today,” Natasha admonishes lightly. “I would have helped you.”

Clint shrugs his shoulders and rips the tape with his teeth, smoothing it down over the edge of the box. He stills when Natasha’s fingers brush the ring on his hand, but otherwise she doesn’t comment on it.

She reaches for the set of three paintings carefully bubble-wrapped together and lifts them up easily, tilting her head at him.

Clint tries to smile, he does. Based on her expression, it must look more like a grimace. He hefts up the box and follows Natasha to the door.

\--

With Natasha’s help, it takes him three full days to pack up his and Phil’s place in Queens. The boxes are moved to the space Tony gave him in the Tower. He makes sure to do it overnight, when the others aren’t around to ask questions he doesn’t want to answer.

He’s not ready to talk about it, isn’t sure he’s ever going to be ready.

When he wakes up in the morning, he finds himself surrounded by a sea of boxes that are full of Phil’s things. The closet is full of Phil’s impeccable suits, his shiny shoes neatly lined up next to Clint’s battered sneakers and boots.

It feels like something is trying to claw its way out of his chest and it takes him a while to remember how to breathe.

Twenty minutes later, Clint is dressed and packed, the bag thrown over his shoulder as he walks out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

“Thanks for joining us, Sleeping Beauty.”

Phil uses a moment to take stock of his surroundings. The ceiling, walls, and linens are all a stark white, and if that isn’t a good enough clue, he feels the IVs in his arms and the nasal cannula and knows he’s in a hospital.

The flare of pain in his chest the second he tries to move is a pretty good indication, too. His vision actually blacks out for a second and he feels a big hand on his right shoulder, grounding him.

“What - ”

“Relax, Phil,” Nick Fury tells him, his voice as gentle as it ever gets.

Phil concentrates on breathing and the pain starts to subside. The morphine certainly helps. “Where am I?”

“A hospital, dumbass,” Nick says. He sits back in his chair and eyes him.

“No, I meant – _where_?”

“It doesn’t matter, Phil.” Nick crosses his arms. “I should fucking demote you for that stunt.”

Phil laughs weakly, and the last conversation he had with Nick slowly starts to come back to him. Sitting on the floor of the Helicarrier with a stab wound. Thinking this was it.

“You’ve been in a coma for a month,” Nick answers him before Phil can get farther than opening his mouth. “You had to be resuscitated twice. In the last week, you’ve been in and out a few times, but you weren’t lucid.”

Phil takes a few minutes to let that sink in. “Is – where’s Clint?” he asks, panic rising. “Is he okay?”

Nick gives him a funny little smile. “Agent Barton was recovered by Agent Romanoff. He’s no longer under Loki’s control.”

Phil makes a mental note to thank Natasha when he sees her. “Then why isn’t he here?” he asks. Dread settles in the pit of his stomach at the look on his friend’s face. It’s the one he associates with getting news he’s not going to like.

“They think you’re dead.”

_“What?”_

“Phil, you flat-lined _twice._ You were in a coma and the doctors didn’t know if you were ever going to wake up, let alone when,” Nick explains. “I thought it was better if they thought you were dead than to give false hope.”

“And now?”

“Obviously I’ll have to tell them the truth, but I have time. You aren’t going anywhere any time soon. The doctors assure me you’re going to going to survive, but you have a long haul ahead of you, Phil,” Nick tells him. “You _should_ have died. You got fucking lucky.”

Phil nods. “Permanent damage?” he wants to know.

Nick tilts his head. “Some,” he concedes. “But the doctors think that if you’re faithful to your PT, it should be pretty minimal. They think you could gain up to ninety percent of the range of motion back in your shoulder.”

“Is Clint okay?”

Nick takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair. “He’s moved into Stark Tower with the rest of the Avengers. I imagine Agent Romanoff had a lot to do with that.”

“That wasn’t an answer, Nick.”

“He’s been going to all of his sessions. The doctors don’t think he’s a suicide risk, but he’s been put on a few different medications to help. He has to report down to medical every day to take them, otherwise we both know what he’d do with those.” Nick watches him. “He found the ring.”

Phil’s glad his eyes are already closed and that Nick can’t see how quickly they water. The ring had been stashed in one of the drawers of his desk in his office, for the next time they had a few minutes alone together. Phil doesn’t say anything right away because he knows his voice won’t have the impeccable Coulson calm it usually does. It takes a while to get past the lump in his throat, thinking of Clint spending an afternoon cleaning out his desk under the impression he’s dead.

“He wears it, Phil. The ring. Usually on a chain around his neck.”

Phil’s chest hurts with the effort not to cry. “Stop,” he says – _begs._ “Nick, please, I can’t do this. I need - ”

The machines start beeping more urgently and a nurse immediately bustles into the room to check on him. She scolds Nick for upsetting him and tells him in no uncertain terms that if he does it again, he’ll be kicked out of the room.

Phil thinks that under normal circumstances, that would probably amuse him. Phil keeps his eyes closed and tries to take deep breaths, tries not to think of Clint. It pulls at the healing wound in his chest and hurts like a bitch, but he does it anyway. He ignores all attempts Nick makes to try to talk to him.

Eventually Nick stands and gives his right shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll be back to check on you soon.”

\--

Even a full week later, Phil still has a hard time staying awake for more than an hour or two at a time. He asks for old newspapers and magazines for the time he does spend awake and spends every minute he has reading through the old news coverage of the battle.

He reads every word he can find of the things the Avengers did then, and what they’re doing now. He finds the lack of Hawkeye sightings concerning.

He blames the medication for the reason why he tends to sleep through Nick’s arrivals. Phil wakes up to Nick sitting at his bedside again, but he doesn’t look happy this time. He’s tense. “Nick?”

“We have a problem.”

Phil doesn’t like the look on his face or the tone of his voice as he says that. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“Barton’s off the grid,” Nick tells him gently. “Agent Romanoff was attempting to locate him, but even she doesn’t seem to know where to look. She’s exhausted all of the places she thought he might go.”

Phil takes a breath. He isn’t sure if the ache in his chest has more to do with the stab wound or his longing to be home. “You can’t track his phone?”

Nick actually rolls his eye. “I’m going let that slide because you were in a coma,” he says dryly. “He left it at the Tower. Left everything except a duffel bag. When I say he’s off the grid, he’s off the grid, Phil. What I really don’t get is why he waited over a month.”

“Our anniversary is next week,” Phil informs him quietly after a minute or two. He’s surprised when Nick actually grimaces, guilt flashing over his features.

“You have any idea where your boy went?” Nick asks him.

Phil has a pretty damn good idea of _exactly_ where Clint went.

Portland.

They bought a townhouse out there together three years ago – in cash, so it isn’t anywhere in SHIELD’s system. They hadn’t told anyone, not even Natasha. It had been after a series of nasty ops that had ultimately resulted in a dislocation of Clint’s left shoulder and a six-inch knife wound that curved around Phil’s right hip, leaving a wicked scar.

Nick had put them both on the inactive roster and given them a minimum of six weeks off to recover.

They’d hit the ground in San Francisco and gone off the radar, paying cash for the rental car and heading north. They’d had every intention of driving all the way up to Seattle, but a pit stop in Portland had entirely derailed that plan.

Both of them had liked it too much.

He remembers how nice it had been to walk hand-in-hand with Clint down the street. How relaxed they’d both been after a few days with nothing to do but sleep and eat and spend time together.

It had been their time in Portland that had really solidified the idea in Phil’s head that he didn’t want to spend his life with anyone else. He swears they talked more in those weeks than they had the entire two years they’d been together prior to that. 

They had joked about never going back to SHIELD because of how nice it had been to just be Phil and Clint. No guns, no knives, no missions except to find a superb cup of coffee.

Neither of them had taken the suggestion seriously – they both loved the job too much for that – but it had been fun to come up with an alternate lifestyle, a plan for what their life would be like if they stayed.

Clint had declared he would learn how to play an instrument. He’d said it was something he always wanted to do, but never got around to learning, what with the circus and then SHIELD and all the missions. He’d rolled his eyes when Phil had suggested a guitar.

Guitars were too popular, Clint had said.

Phil’s next suggestion had been a violin or a cello, teasing that if Clint chose one of those, he wouldn’t have to give up his bow.

Saying he had a cellist in Portland became an easy cover story for when people started to pry too much. The smile it always drew out of Clint any time he heard it was nice, too.

They’d made a point of making sure their relationship stayed quiet. Only a handful of people knew it extended farther than handler and asset – Nick, Natasha, probably Hill. Jasper hadn’t until very recently.

After Portland, after they’d gotten back to New York, Clint had officially moved in with him. Or finished moving in, since his things had slowly been accumulating at Phil’s place the previous six months.

He’s not surprised that Clint would want to spend their fifth anniversary in Portland.

“I think I know where he is,” Phil says finally. He shakes his head at the expectant look Nick gives him. “He’ll know, Nick. If you send anyone out there to get him, he’ll know that I told you.”

Nick gives him a look that tells Phil exactly how unhappy he is with that answer.

“He’ll be back,” Phil says.

“You sure about that, Phil?” Nick asks him.

“Of course I’m sure,” Phil answers with a tiny quirk of his lips. “He would have taken more than a duffel bag if he was planning on leaving for good.”

Nick doesn’t look mollified. “You got any idea when he’s going to drag his ass home?”

Phil shrugs his good shoulder. “Give him a week or two. If he still hasn’t turned up by then, you can bring Natasha in to see me, and I’ll tell her where to find him.” He knows exactly how much Nick doesn’t like that answer because he twitches. Nothing overt, but enough that Phil notices.

“You’ve previously made your feelings regarding my decision to keep you hidden abundantly clear, Coulson,” Nick tells him, and Phil almost smiles at the use of his last name instead of his first. “Now you’re just being juvenile.”

Phil sits still for a moment before giving in to the urge and sticking his tongue out at Nick.

Nick laughs, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

\--

“It pains me to say it, but you were right.”

Phil hikes an eyebrow and looks up from his crossword puzzle when Nick sweeps into the room. “Of course I was,” he answers immediately. “What was I right about?” 

Nick doesn’t answer him right away and drops into his usual chair and says instead, “You’re awake.”

“Am I not supposed to be?” Phil asks.

Nick shrugs his shoulders and leans back. “It’s the first time you’ve been awake when I’ve come in. I guess you’re starting to feel better?”

“I’m not expending much energy, Nick.” Phil eyes him. “What was I right about?”

“Barton. It took him a week and a half, but he turned up yesterday morning.”

“How is he?”

“That’s fucking insulting, Coulson. I’m great, how are you?” Nick rolls his eye. “Agent Romanoff reported that he seems to be fine. No worse than when he left.”

Phil doesn’t sigh with relief, but it’s only with extreme effort. “Where did my things go?” he asks after a silent minute. “I assume the suit was incinerated, but everything else? The stuff that would have been in my pockets?”

It’s a shame. He’d liked that tie.

Nick leans back in his chair. “Your wallet, keys, phone, and handgun are in my office,” he replies. “For safekeeping.”

There’s an awful pain in his shoulder when he moves, but it doesn’t seem quite as bad as it had last week, so he guesses that’s a good thing. “There’s a keychain on my keys,” Phil says. “A silver treble clef.”

“I remember it.”

“Will you give it to Clint for me?” Phil asks. “It was – he bought it for me a long time ago. I think he would probably like to have it back. It’s sort of sentimental.”

It’s so much more than that. It’s their code.

The code they’d come up with after an op that had gone pear-shaped, forcing Clint to hit the streets and go on the run. It had taken a week and a half before he’d been able to contact them.

A small, seemingly inconsequential trinket mailed to the other to let them know they’re okay.

It’s late, but that had been out of Phil’s control. Better late than never, he thinks.

“Sure,” Nick answers. “I’ll make sure Barton gets it.”

“Thanks.” Phil tilts his head and then gestures to the paper in his lap. “I hear there’s a Stark gala?”

Nick nods. “There is. Tomorrow night. A fundraiser with the proceeds going toward the repairs that need done around the city. It’s going to be a media circus, because all of the Avengers are going. As long as the property damage is kept to a minimum, I guess I don’t give a shit.”

“Clint is going?” Getting dressed up and going to a fancy event is not exactly Clint’s brand of whisky.

“Captain America thinks it’s important for team unity.” Nick almost smiles.

Phil hums. “You must be happy,” he says and when Nick arches an eyebrow, adds, “You got the team you wanted.”


	3. Chapter 3

Clint has barely stepped out of the elevator before everyone else is standing in the entryway blocking his path, and Tony Stark is right in his face. It tells him that JARVIS probably announced his arrival the second the scanner on the private elevator granted him access.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Tony demands and actually pokes him hard in the chest.

“Away,” Clint answers. He rubs the spot and glances past Tony’s shoulder to the others, their expressions showing various shades of concern.

“Away?” Tony parrots. “You can’t disappear like that and not tell anyone where you’re going or when you’re going to be back.”

Clint’s brow furrows. “What?”

“We’re a team!” Tony tells him. “We had a – a _thing_! And we could have used your help up high, but no one knew where the hell to find you. Natasha looked for you for _days.”_

He feels a pang of guilt at that and stores that bit of information away – he’ll apologize to her later. “Look, I just needed some time to myself, okay? I didn’t realize I had to get a fucking permission slip signed.”

“You know what? I get it, Loki fucked with your brain, and your handler died, and that _sucks,”_ Tony ignores Steve’s admonishing, “ _Tony,”_ behind him. “But you’re not the only one who’s upset about losing him. It doesn’t give you the right to be an asshole and treat everyone else like shit and just _disappear_ whenever you want without a word to anyone.”

“Tony.” Bruce’s voice this time.

Clint’s jaw clenches and he shoves Tony’s hand away from him. “You have no fucking idea how I feel about anything, Stark, so get the fuck out of my face,” Clint tells him.

“You’re not the only person in this room who’s ever lost a friend,” Tony snaps. “Cap lost _all_ of his friends and he’s not holed up in his room crying and ignoring everyone.”

“Go fuck your-self,” Clint bites out and pushes his way through Tony and the others to go to his room. He ignores their attempts to get him to stop and he slams his door shut behind him.

The duffel sails into the one empty corner of his bedroom, joined shortly by his boots before he strips out of his clothes and climbs into bed.

Clint plays with the ring resting against his bare chest, lets it slide partway onto his finger. After a few minutes, he sighs and turns over onto his side. He tucks his arm under his head and closes his eyes, letting his thumb rub against the warm platinum.

They don’t fucking understand. None of them do, except for Natasha. He misses Phil so fucking much. Hates himself because if it weren’t for him, Phil would still be here.

Everyone keeps telling him it wasn’t his fault. He doesn’t know why, because it was. He’s the one who told Loki everything. It was his knowledge that enabled them to take apart the Helicarrier like that.

The locks to his door click, and Clint glares up at his ceiling.

“Thanks for the privacy, JARVIS,” he mutters.

“Sorry, sir. Master’s orders,” JARVIS replies.

The door to his bedroom opens and Clint sits up immediately, turning his glare onto Tony. “Jesus Christ, what do you _want?_ ” he asks.

Tony comes to a stop just inside the doorway and looks around at all of the taped boxes and other items carefully bubble-wrapped and still sitting in Clint’s room, because he can’t bear to do anything else with them. All of the boxes are labeled neatly – Phil’s kitchen stuff, Phil’s office stuff, Phil’s Captain American memorabilia: box 1 of 2.

Clint watches Tony take it all in.

Finally, Tony looks away from the corner of the room holding the majority of Phil’s Captain America collection. He stares at Clint, looking stricken. “I’m sorry. For what happened – what I said. Natasha told us about you and Agent - Phil,” he says awkwardly. “If I’d known, I would have - ”

“Done what, Tony? Nothing you could have said or done would change anything,” Clint says tiredly.

“No, but I could have helped with, you know, all of this.” He gestures at all of the lovingly packed and wrapped items sitting in Clint’s bedroom. “No one should have to do that alone.”

Clint looks away from Tony. “He wouldn’t have liked everyone going through his stuff,” he answers, his voice quiet. “I didn’t do it alone. Natasha helped me.”

“This all came from his place?” Tony asks after a moment, and Clint nods, doesn’t bother telling him it was _their_ place, not just Phil’s. “Are you going to get rid of it?”

“Yeah. What’s the point of keeping it?”

For once, Tony understands it’s a rhetorical question and doesn’t answer. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“We didn’t tell anyone,” Clint answers. He fiddles with the ring around his neck.

“Natasha said you were together – she didn’t – I didn’t realize you were engaged.”

Clint shakes his head. “We weren’t. I found it in his desk when I cleaned out his office at HQ.”

Tony’s expression sinks. “He was going to ask.”

“Guess so.”

“Clint, I’m -”

“Don’t.” Clint stares down at some spot on his comforter, not looking at Tony. “Please don’t.”

Tony runs a hand through his hair, glancing around the room again. “I don’t know if you heard about it wherever you were,” he says. “It’s been on the news. There’s a Stark gala the day after tomorrow. We’re all going. We’d like it if you came, too.”

Clint doesn’t answer right away. “If I don’t want to?”

“No one’s going to hog-tie you and throw you in the trunk of a car,” Tony answers. “You’ll get Cap’s sad puppy eyes, though. He thinks it’ll be good for the team.” He flashes a grin, though it’s not as high-watt as it normally is. “You don’t want to disappoint America, do you?”

There are a million different responses to that sitting on his tongue, but Clint bites them all back and takes a deep breath. “Do I have to wear a tux?” he asks.

“Just a nice suit,” Tony assures him.

“Okay. I’ll go.”

Tony nods and starts backtracking to the door. “Hey, if you need anything, you know where to find us. Or you can ask JARVIS.”

“Thanks.” Clint offers a ghost of a smile. He watches Tony nod again and then curls back up when the door shuts.

\--

The tailor had taken longer with the suit than originally promised, so he’s running late. Clint lets out an irritated sigh and cuts across the street when the light turns. He makes his way quickly to the private elevator and scans his way into it. The elevator ascends smoothly and Clint steps out when the doors ding open.

“You’re not ready yet?” Bruce raises his eyebrows a little, fiddling with his cufflinks. He, Steve, and Thor are all suited up already, ready to go.

Clint makes a point of looking down at his worn t-shirt, ripped jeans and dirty purple Converse. “Uh, no, man. I’m not ready.”

“We must not be late!” Thor tells him.

“Why? Stark’s late to his own shit all the time,” Clint answers, but rolls his eyes when Steve gives him a look. “Okay, okay, I’m going, Jesus.”

Clint is in the process of tucking his purple dress shirt into his grey slacks when his door opens and Natasha sweeps into the room in a black dress and sky-high heels, her hair all pinned up. “You look nice,” he tells her.

“Thanks.” Natasha reaches for the tie on the end of Clint’s bed and flips his collar up, sliding it around his neck. She ties it for him while he finishes with his shirt and buckles his belt.

Clint kisses her cheek after she brushes invisible lint off of the shoulders of his jacket and he reaches for his dress shoes. He straightens up when he’s done tying them and offers his arm. “Let’s get this over with, huh?”

Natasha loops her hand through his arm and walks with him back out to meet up with the others.

They’re in the middle of a discussion of some sort, and Clint clearly hears Steve say to Bruce, “Maybe you should wait to give that to Clint until after the party.”

“Give me what?” he asks, and the three of them look up at he and Natasha.

“Oh.” Bruce grimaces. “Well, this was dropped off for you while you were getting ready,” he says, and holds his hand out.

Sitting in the palm of Bruce’s hand is a small silver keychain that knocks the air right out of Clint’s lungs. “Where did that come from?” he asks sharply. 

“Director Fury,” Steve tells him. “He said it had belonged to Agent Coulson, and he thought that Agent Coulson would have wanted you to have it back,” he says gently.

Thor nods. “He also wished us a safe evening.”

“That was more like a threat,” Bruce says wryly, though they’re all watching Clint a little warily, like they think he might explode.

Clint reaches out and picks the treble clef up off of Bruce’s outstretched hand. He stares down at it for a full minute, his heart racing in his chest.

Phil’s alive.

Somewhere, somehow, he’s _alive_ and he managed to get Nick fucking Fury to unknowingly hand-deliver the one thing that would tell Clint that.

“Clint?” Natasha gently squeezes his elbow.

Clint sucks in a breath and manages a small smile. “We have a party to get to, don’t we?” he asks, and pockets the keychain.

\--

The dance floor isn’t too crowded, so when a lilting slow song starts playing, Clint takes the drink from Natasha’s hand – vodka, neat – and places it on an empty tray one of the servers takes by them. He leads her out into the middle of the floor and smiles just a little at the glare she’s giving him for getting rid of her alcohol.

Natasha rests her free hand on Clint’s chest, stepping in close, and he settles his other hand on the small of her back.

They’ve been dancing for nearly five minutes when Clint bends his head down to whisper in her ear.

Following the gala, a picture of this moment shows up all over the place with exaggerated headlines about an epic Avengers romance.

Clint scoffs at the way the media blows it out of proportion, but he’s glad that the moment is captured on film forever.

There’s the tiniest hint of a smile gracing Natasha’s features, and even if the relief isn’t visible, he remembers feeling the way her muscles had relaxed as he held her, when he’d told her about the keychain and its significance.

That it’s an indication that Phil’s alive.

At the team breakfast in the morning, in between the chuckles over his and Natasha’s apparent courtship and another helping of eggs, toast, and bacon, Clint clears his throat. “There’s something we need to talk about,” he says.

Natasha smiles and kisses his head as she gets up to refill their coffee.

“Okay,” Steve says. He’s already standing at the coffee pot, so he pours more into both mugs for her.

“Phil’s alive,” Clint tells them.

Silence reigns for a moment before Tony narrows his eyes at him. “Come again?”

Clint shifts in his seat to pull the music note out of his pocket and he holds it out, the cool metal sitting on his palm. “Fury delivered this. It means that Phil’s alive.”

Bruce frowns. “Are you sure?” he asks. “Are you sure there’s not a mistake?”

“I’m sure,” Clint says. “Fury didn’t even give me Phil’s keys, why would he suddenly give me his keychain after a month and a half? Phil had to have asked him to.”

“As a favor for keeping him hidden, maybe,” Natasha muses.

Tony makes a noise and pulls his tablet closer, fingers flying over the screen. “You know, I wouldn’t put it past Fury to do something underhanded like that,” he mutters. After a few minutes, he makes a noise. “My sources tell me that for the last month and a half, a sizeable payment has been made to a PO box near Cleveland.”

Bruce tilts his head. “Interesting.”

Steve frowns. “Why is that interesting?”

“Because the Cleveland Clinic has a very good cardiovascular unit,” Tony answers. “And hello, it’s _Ohio._ Why the hell else would you want to go there?”

Thor’s brow furrows. “I do not think I understand. What is wrong with this Ohio you speak of?”

Bruce waves a hand. “That’s not important.”

“No,” Tony agrees. “What’s important is that Fury fucking lied. Legolas, just say the word and we’ll get the plane ready.”

Clint offers Tony a smile and pockets the keychain again. As much as he wants to jump on a plane in the next five minutes, he knows they shouldn’t. “If Fury hasn’t told us, there’s a reason why,” he says.

Bruce hums. “You think so?” he asks, and Clint nods.

“I’ve been working with SHIELD for a long time,” he says. “You never get all of the facts, but there’s a reason for everything that Fury does.”

“Is it not strange that much time has passed?” Thor asks after a moment.

Natasha tilts her head. “Thor has a point,” she replies. “Why did Phil wait a month and a half before sending it?”

“Maybe he couldn’t until now?” Steve offers. “Maybe he sent it as soon as he could.”

“The man did get stabbed in the chest,” Tony says.

Bruce hums. “If the damage was extensive enough, they could have medically induced a coma,” he says. “And maybe that’s why there was a delay. If he wasn’t conscious, he wouldn’t have been able to get it to you.”

Clint closes his eyes briefly and takes a breath because he’s not fond of that scenario, but the metal object in his pocket reminds him that regardless of what happened, everything’s okay. Phil is okay.

“Perhaps that is why we were not told that the Son of Coul lives,” Thor says reasonably.

“It’s possible that Fury wasn’t sure he _would_ wake up,” Natasha says gently.

Tony taps his fingers against the table. “That begs the question as to why he hasn’t told us now that he _is_ awake.”

“I think, ultimately, that’s Clint’s decision,” Steve says, leaning back against the counter and looking at Clint. “If you want to push the issue with Director Fury, we’ll have your back.”

Clint considers it for a moment, sees in every single one of their expressions that he’ll have their support in whatever decision he makes. The thought occurs to him, though he doubts it, that maybe it’s Phil’s choice to stay away for now and he might not appreciate their invading the hospital while he’s trying to recover.

“I think,” he begins slowly. “I think for now, we’ll wait and see. We don’t have enough information.”

\--

Knowing deep down that Phil is okay makes everything a little bit easier, but waiting is still hard. Every time Fury calls them all into one of the conference rooms for a meeting, Clint’s heart starts to hammer in his chest and he wonders if this will be the one that brings Phil back to him.

It’s been three months, and if he has to wait any longer, he might burst. They all file in and exchange looks as they claim chairs.

Clint wipes his sweaty palms off on his jeans and sinks down, knowing that they’re all thinking about it, too. He takes a deep breath and covers the hand Natasha puts on his knee with his own and desperately hopes.

He barely even hears whatever line of bullshit Fury feeds to them when he comes into the room, because all he knows is that Phil walks through the door a moment later.

The Avengers clearly don’t react the way that Fury thinks they should, if the tightness in his jaw is any indication.

Phil smiles at them and accepts the hugs offered. He looks overwhelmed when Steve shakes his hand and tells him that he’s collected a new set of Captain America cards for him, all of them signed.

Steve explains that one is still missing, but promises to help him find it.

Through the commotion, Clint watches with a small smile, Natasha’s hand still held tightly in his.

Phil’s movements are stiff. He’s pale, he’s lost weight, and there’s a slight pinch to his expression that speaks of still being in pain, but he’s alive.

Natasha gives Phil a long hug and says something in his ear that makes Phil smile, and Clint’s heart clenches in his chest.

His legs feel shaky when he finally stands, but he pulls the keychain out of his pocket and holds it out. “Boss. Figured you’d come to collect it eventually.”

Phil smiles fondly at him and reaches out. He doesn’t take the keychain. He closes his fingers around Clint’s wrist and starts to tug him forward instead. “Knew you’d keep it safe,” he answers.

“You’re still an asshole,” Clint says but he allows Phil to pull. His skin tingles where Phil has touched him, and Clint slides his arms low around Phil’s waist. He grasps his own forearms, locking Phil in close, feels the keychain still in his hand digging into the skin of his arm.

Phil laughs softly and Clint thinks it’s the best fucking noise he’s ever heard. “Why’s that?”

“I had to go to your funeral.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Phil says. “I got it to you as soon as I could.”

“Coulson, we’re going to have a conversation about this,” Fury warns him, an irritated expression crossing his face.

“No, sir, we’re not,” Phil answers.

Clint smiles because Phil’s gaze never leaves his. He leans in and kisses Phil for the first time in nearly five months.

It still feels like home.


End file.
